


Love, Like Art-

by agustdays (kobayashimarryu)



Category: Sense8 (TV), 방탄소년단 | Bangtan Boys | BTS
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Ballet Dancer!Jimin, Fluff, I love piano yoonmin, M/M, More tags to be added, Music Producer!Yoongi, Non-Idol AU, Psychic Abilities, Psychic Bond, Sense8 AU, Supernatural - Freeform, there will be angst but like far off in the future
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-17
Updated: 2017-05-21
Packaged: 2018-11-01 23:50:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10932585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kobayashimarryu/pseuds/agustdays
Summary: Eight people, born simultaneously around the world, find themselves connected with a psychic bond. They dream of being killed in an alleyway and wake to find that suddenly, they're hearing voices, seeing people that aren't there. Jimin never asked for this.





	1. The Violence That We Do To Ourselves

**Author's Note:**

> I marathoned Sense8 as soon as season 2 was uploaded and I couldn't stop thinking about it so, here I am! If you need some way to pass the inevitable two year wait for the next season, and also happen to love seven boys under the name BTS then this is for you!
> 
> It's Yoonmin-centric - it will mostly be written from their point of view, but all seven members will be involved by chapter 2 or 3. I'm playing fast and loose with the rules of Sense8 - all the boys are technically 20 years old, all born June 13, 1997, so just overlook the fact that Jin is like almost done with his med degree and that Jungkook should really be 18.
> 
> Yoongi - he has his Agust D styling in this fic.  
> Jimin - 'Prince Eric' style. Floppy black hair, loose white shirt - the works.

Yoongi knows he hasn’t felt pain like this before – he can’t breathe from a mix of exhaustion and a sharp stab that lances through his chest from behind. He can feel something wedge into his body and tear away three times. _It must be a knife,_ he thinks as he falls to lean heavily against his bed, but a quick glance at his mirror on the back of the door shows nothing protruding through his jacket – there’s no knife, no blood. His vision swims before him, and suddenly he’s not collapsing in his studio flat anymore – there’s cold, wet stone beneath him, rain thumping heavily around him. He’s not in his own body. It’s too large and heavy-set for it to be his own. Yoongi thinks he might be hallucinating – too many late nights working – but everything looks, feels too real.

A hand leaves his shoulder as the knife pulls out from the third wound, and he finally falls forward, hitting the concrete. It’s dark and cold, night-time, no longer 7am and he’s definitely not in Seoul, but he’s losing consciousness too fast to notice much. He drags his head against the ground, and sees bright lights at the end of the alleyway, silhouetting a female form as it walks away. Hot blood trickles down his body, welling from the stab wounds in his back, and if he wasn’t numb and freezing in the rain, it would be ticklish. _I’m dying. I’m going to die._ He feels himself expel one last breath.

When Yoongi wakes up, it feels like the world’s worst hangover. He starts chuckling before remembering that he didn’t actually go out last night, and he suffered from the world’s worst hallucination instead. He’s still lying on the floor, arm reaching forwards as though he was trying to grab onto that woman’s ankle as she left him dying on the floor. The phantom pain is nothing more than a memory now, but it’s been replaced with a thumping migraine that will likely disrupt his plans to continue with his composition for class before work.

He can feel an ache in his shoulder as he gets up from the hard floor, and thinks briefly that he’s grateful he’s not a ballet dancer. It’s a strange thought to have, but Yoongi notices the time on his wrist watch before he can think too much about it. He’d been about to leave at 6am for a quick, early studio session at university before his first class at 8am, but it’s past 7am now. Yoongi knew with a deep-set dread that if he was late for his Compositional Theory class his lecturer would kill him on the spot. He pops a painkiller on his way out from his flat. He didn’t have the time to think much more about it, sprinting for the bus to university, but he can’t shake the feeling of being watched.

 

* * *

 

There’s someone behind him, a looming presence that haunts him as he runs down the dingy alley. He can’t see far in front of him – rain runs into his eyes faster than he can wipe it away. He turns a corner and finally, there’re lights ahead. A busy road – some hope of surviving. Almost as quickly as the thought runs through his mind, a small hand grabs his shoulder and yanks him backwards and Jimin knows it’s over. He knows he is dreaming – that he’s not in St Petersburg anymore, that he’s not in his own body – but the first stab grounds him firmly in the vivid realism of the dream.

Jimin can’t scream in this dream body, but he thinks faintly that his roommate will hear screaming from his real one. Two more stabs follow before the hand leaves his shoulder and he falls to the floor. A woman walks away from him towards the lit street ahead, slowly, not caring that someone may see her, and knowing that Jimin will not attack her. He feels himself fading as the rain continues to fall on him. _I don’t want to die_ , he thinks, feeling tears prick in his eyes. _I don’t want to die, I can’t die, I don’t want to, I-_

“Jimin! Jimin, wake up or I swear to god!”

There’s cold water on his face but he’s not in that rainy alley anymore. He blinks a couple times – the paint-flecked off-white ceiling, the flickering lightbulb, his asshole roommate. _Home_.

“ _Niko_? What’d’you do tha’ for?” Jimin slurs, sulking under his blanket. There’s nothing worse than wet hair in bed, never mind a wet bed, period. “Needed t’ sleep.”

Nikolai gets off Jimin’s bed with a snort, sitting an empty glass on their nightstand as he falls back on his own mattress. “So did I. You were shouting in your sleep, ‘ _I don’t wanna die, I don’t wanna die_ ’. You were crying and you wouldn’t wake up.” He rolls over to stare Jimin, looking puzzled for a second as he drags his hand through his long black hair. He seems to give up interest a second later. “Go back to sleep. It’s past 1am now, and you know we have an early start with the recital rehearsal.”

Jimin sits up to complain – maybe attempt to puppy-eye his way into some sympathy-bed-sharing since his own is wet now, but Niko is out like a light before he can even try. Typical. _Well, fuck you, too_ , he whispers under his breath as he gets up to stretch, but Niko’s death stare is palpable even in unconsciousness so he makes a quick grab for his tattered gym bag and decides some early – _early_ – morning practice couldn’t hurt.

He notices the first throbs of a bad migraine as he checks his phone on the way out the accommodation.  The cool, crisp air of fresh snow helps somewhat, but Jimin has a feeling he’ll later regret not grabbing some ibuprofen in his rush to leave. The city is beautiful in the snow, delightfully quiet in the wee hours, and it’s easy to pass the short walk to the dance studios lost in thought.

Even when Jimin arrives at the studio, he can’t quite get his mind off of his dream. The adrenaline from that dreamt run for his life has him wide awake. He walks to the barre that runs along the window wall and runs mindlessly through some stretches, watching the city life outside. His migraine twitches as he stretches towards his toes and it brings the ghost of the stabbing pain back. It makes him sigh painfully, involuntarily clutching his side. Dance practice is out of the window until he can find some painkillers.

A soft piano melody distracts him from his drifting, a voice he can’t quite hear following along with it, but no one sits on the piano bench in the studio. Jimin whips his head to look around the room, but there’s definitely – he’s definitely alone. The adjacent studios are soundproofed, as this one is. Was he imagining it? He hadn’t been getting much sleep lately, true, but–   

_Will you stay by my side? Will you promise me?_

He hears it again, stronger this time, and he urges forward impulsively. The voice is low, pleasantly warm. He tries to locate where it’s coming from, but Jimin can’t locate it. He walks to sit on the piano bench as the voice falls silent once more, but he has the feeling that it will continue – the lull between verses. The last few notes vibrate in his mind, extending and strengthening as though his hearing is improving. Although it is already dim in the studio, he closes his eyes, and notices that his migraine has faded – he can think clearly, and when he opens his eyes once more he is sitting at a different piano, and a man sings beside him as he plays.

_If I let go of your hand, you’ll fly away and break. I’m scared, scared, scared of that._

Jimin turns his head slowly, feeling almost as though dream logic is at play though nothing in his life has felt as real as this moment, as the dream he’d just had that night. His mind screams that looking at this man would be blinding, like looking at the sun, but he still–

_Will you stop time? If this moment passes–_

He’s beautiful, and something in him vibrates like the silence immediately following the perfect composition, the perfect dance – like something has been completed the way it was destined to. The piano man doesn’t look at him as he keeps singing, blond wavy hair falling down his forehead as he curls into himself, and his music. Jimin longs for their eyes to meet, feeling on the edge of – something.

_As though it hadn’t happened. I’m scared, scared, scared I’ll lose you._

The man looks up.

Jimin blinks, and sees his dimly lit studio, the piano bench empty next to him, and no sign of that melody in the air. _Who are you, piano man?_


	2. All The Things That We Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yoongi thinks he's going crazy - Jimin does, too. The only difference is that one's upset, and the other one feels like it's Christmas come early.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm back like 6 days early since I couldn't not write this today. It was planned as part of chapter one, but since I don't like writing more than 1500-2000 words per chapter, I split it. I'm going to update sporadically - I'm on a zero hours contract, so my week-by-week free time fluctuates, but you are guaranteed at least one chapter by/on the next Wednesday.
> 
> To the non-sense8 watcher: sensates can develop their abilities over practice to know what the other feels/thinks even when they aren't actively 'visiting' each other/another sensate. At the beginning, the power manifests as temporary audio/sensory hallucinations, speaking in another language, and being able to see the other sensate. When visiting each other, you are simultaneously in that body and in your own. If you are visiting, you are like a ghost/voice to the other person, and if they interact with you, other people will see them interact with thin air, unless you actively make the conversation/exchange happen in your head. 
> 
> I'm trying to make it as simplified as possible since it's harder to show in writing, and if the explanation above or at the end of chapters doesn't help, feel free to drop me a comment!

Yoongi stares at the recording studio wall, vaguely aware of someone – Suran – asking through the intercom why he stopped performing, but his migraine has rushed back tenfold and he can’t focus on anything except that one second glimpse of – someone. Brown eyes, a kind smile. A different studio, even, dimmer lighting – more traditionally grand, like a dance studio of some kind instead of the modern little recording box room he was in.

He rests his head on his hands, willing the buzzing, pulsing pain to go away so he can think. Maybe he should really go to hospital – first he hallucinated a murder as the victim, which gave him a never-ending migraine, and now this apparition of a black-haired boy he _knew_ , but knew he couldn’t possibly have ever known.

What the fuck was going on?

Hospital – or any medical attention bar painkillers – was out of the question. Yoongi didn’t have the time or the money to land himself balls-deep in psychiatric territory. He wasn’t crazy. Something was really happening to him, something supernatural. He wasn’t all that into ghosts but the boy beside him had felt as real as anything he could touch now, and he barely even caught a glance of him. Halfway through the recording of _Butterfly_ , Yoongi’s migraine had disappeared for a glorious thirty seconds, replaced by some kind of vibrating emotion inside of him that had felt as glorious as any skilfully-played violin piece.

His migraine stops throbbing as he leans back, and he hears a voice clearly speak, simultaneously from beside him and in his head. “Maybe I should ask dad when he gets back from the hospital…” The voice continues musing to itself, quieting steadily like a radio being turned down before it’s gone and his migraine is back to thumping out a steady rhythm instead. No one sits beside him on the piano bench, and Suran stares questioningly at him from outside the booth, but it had been a man’s voice speaking.

His dad isn’t at hospital. Yoongi had the distinct feeling that although he knew what the voice had said, it hadn’t been in–

“Yoongi-ssi, are you okay? I didn’t know you spoke English!”

Yoongi’s head whips around to stare at Suran so quickly he’s sure he’ll have an ache later. “Huh? What are you–?”

“Oh! Sorry, Yoongi-ssi, but I have to run. I have a violin tutorial. We can finish our recording tomorrow, okay? Bye!”

Suran’s long out the door before Yoongi’s migraine-ridden brain can catch up and he sighs as he slumps over the piano.

“What the actual fuck.”

Was he just tired? It’s true that this project with Suran had kept him sleeping less than four hours most nights the past two weeks, but he was used to that kind of sleep schedule around the end-of-semester performances. If it was just tiredness, he would be able to sleep all he wanted in two weeks’ time. Hopefully – hopefully this would all be over by then, and his dreams could stay dreams, instead of being migraines and hallucinated people or voices. It had only been a few hours, though. Yoongi knew he could just be overreacting – stressed out about the concert.

If Suran had her violin class soon, then it was almost 11am. Yoongi had to work at a local shop for the few hours between this recording slot and the time he had booked on Monday nights for violin then hageum practice. A six-hour shift would be a semi-boring breeze on most days, a mindless retreat from all the thinking and composing and advanced musical theories floating around in his head, but today he had so much to think about.

It’s only a ten-minute walk to the convenience store, located just beyond the university campus, and it passes slowly with the bright lights and loud noises aggravating the thumping in his head, until he looks up to notice that snowflakes are falling. Maybe it’s the crisp, cool breeze that calms Yoongi’s head, or just the childlike delight of first snow, but the pain passes as he reaches up to try and catch snow in his hands.

He almost manages to land one square on his palm, but a sudden, harsher gust of wind blows it from his grasp like a sharp exhale, the wind whistling by like a whisper in his ear. It carries with it the faintest string melody. Yoongi almost can’t help himself – the lyrics come to his mind like the chorus of a favourite song unheard for years.

_I miss you. I miss you._

There’s a presence to his right once more and a second voice joins his own, but when Yoongi looks around, there’s only the bustling crowds of students moving between classes. A boy – not the one singing, but another – walks by him slower than the rest, an unsure look on his face, somehow staring straight at and through him. His hair was rugged and almost purple-brown, and falls over his face asymmetrically, almost violently directing Yoongi’s attention to the black eye and small, scabbing cuts that litter his face. He notices the snow with visible surprise – no one else does. The boy looks down from the sky, harsh gaze piercing straight through Yoongi, before he disappears into the crowd.

Yoongi can no longer see snow falling from the sky, and his headache returns. Like the last voice, he knows this singer isn’t speaking Korean, but he understands it just the same. The pitch is much higher than the English speaker, softer, vibrating with longing. He isn’t sure how he knows, but of the three people he’s hallucinated so far, he knows the singer is the black-haired boy from the piano.

_I miss you. I miss you._

The harsh breeze passes by him and doesn’t return, the voice fading out into his migraine like static. He doesn’t feel right anymore – halved, missing something intangible, feeling like he’s been struck with amnesia and, like so many movie characters, _knows_ that he has forgotten the love of his life. He coughs, suddenly choked up on something – an unfamiliar ache cuts deep in his chest like death – and tries to walk to work even faster.

* * *

 

Jimin backs uncertainly towards the wall until he hits it and slides down to the floor, his breathing and racing pulse seeming thunderous in the quiet studio. He hadn’t meant to start singing – his track was instrumental, a simple string orchestra piece that swelled as it echoed the desperation of his performance. There were no lyrics – Nikolai and some of his other classmates had been trying to convince him to sing over the track for weeks. Now, it seemed, there were.

Caught up in the music, Jimin had been twisting like the sea dancing in a storm as the music hit the final repetition of the main theme, emphasised dramatically with harsh drags of the bow and suddenly he’d found himself dancing in the middle of a faceless crowd of students, not stopping as some unknown force compelled him to continue. He spun delicately on one foot at the short lull in the tune once, twice, before launching back into the music but this time, he sang.

_I miss you. I miss you._

The lyrics were Korean, a language Jimin could speak, but didn’t do often. He didn’t know what had spurred that on until, at the end of another turn, Jimin saw a blond man in front of him, facing almost entirely away from him – the piano one, he could tell. His confidence grew at the thought, and he knew he was right. The blond man was caught still in the middle of the crowd, singing along with Jimin, reaching up for snowflakes. It had been snowing in St Petersburg just before this… hallucination had started, and it still was when it ended. Had he brought it with him?

_I miss you. I miss you._

Jimin had curled in on himself as the song came to a close. Another boy, brunet and rough, had walked by, staring at both him and the piano man, and Jimin knew, somehow, that he was also part of the vision. When he met that harsh gaze, just as the blond man was turning towards him, the connection – the vision broke, and Jimin was sliding down the wall of the dance studio, trying to breathe.

There was no way to question it now, really. Jimin had always been into his grandmother’s fairytales as a child, and he did believe in supernatural things, abilities that lay beyond known science. Maybe he was seeing a dead person, dead people, watching them in the afterlife, or connecting to them as their life approached an end. Maybe they were ghosts haunting him. The thought put a smile on his face, a giddy laugh escaping between harsh breaths. Was he going crazy from the stress of the recital and the approaching end of school?

Jimin figured there had to be a way to control it. It had all started with that really real dream he’d died in… Maybe he was the dead one? He reached for the vitamin water bottle and took a long sip as his breathing finally levelled out. Could he just will himself into that other realm? He hadn’t been thinking of anything specific when he’d hallucinated the last two times, although music had been playing from either his own world or the other. Maybe that was the key?

It was after 5am now, and other dancers would start appearing as they wanted to get in some early practice, so he didn’t have much time to do this in private. Jimin jumped up, almost running to the music player. Maybe if he just danced again, like before, and focused on trying to be with the blond man, it would work.

His body ran through the dance almost on autopilot, any stress about trying to make it perfect gone now that Jimin was so intensely interested just in trying to transport to that other place. When he reached the final rendition of the main theme, he could feel his migraine lift and knew, without opening his eyes, that he was no longer in the dance studio. Still, he completed the final few steps blind, scared to open his eyes to confirm it just in case it had failed. Jimin took a long breath in–

“Who the fuck are you?”

Well.

He opens his eyes with an eyebrow cocked, lips pursed. What kind of way was that to greet someone? Jimin saw the blond man standing with a bin bag, having just opened the door. It wasn’t too cold, but dark, and Jimin could see that they were in some kind of thin alleyway, connecting the back doors of shops and cafes. There was Korean writing on some of the litter scattered around the place, and he felt giddy, like some kid hopped up on their first sugar high. This power was so cool!

As Jimin stood there, trying to gauge his surroundings, the blond man looked more and more agitated. Now that he wasn’t caught up in wonder at the transportation or hallucination, he could feel some kind of weird dual vision, like he had the power to watch two TV screens simultaneously – he stood in his own body, staring at a blond, grumpy man with a bin bag, and also stood in that body, staring at a ridiculous black-haired fairy-looking dancer, pointe shoes and all.

Jimin smirked, pulling a pose with a peace sign and pout.

“That’s such a rude way to greet your soulmate, piano man!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As with the end of chapter one, I feel like there's still more to write for this 'section' of the story, but I prefer shorter chapters just to ease the pressure. Anyways, for the sake of clarity, I'll always mention in the end notes which other member/sensate was seen.
> 
> So:  
> English voice, rough guy: Jungkook, bby  
> Jimin and Yoongi saw each other in the street, and heard each other sing, ah~ Now Jimin's out to piss Yoongs off with some teasing and peace n pouting.


	3. Who Am I?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yoongi and Jimin have a chat in the work's dingy back room, while Yoongi fights off several potential breakdowns. Are all redheads evil?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter up! I don't have work until Thursday, so I think I'll manage another two before then.

“Who the fuck are you?”

Yoongi hasn’t had this weird a day in his entire life. He’s hearing voices, seeing flashes of people who appear and disappear in the blink of an eye, has been temporarily transported to a dance studio he didn’t recognise, but that was fine. He could pass that off as so many things – he was tired, overworked, stressed, bored, imaginative, whatever. But there was no story that could explain away the dancing prince-looking boy in front of him, who had finished dancing and had been standing in Yoongi’s vision for over a minute. This was not a temporary trick of vision that could be covered up.

And then the hallucination spoke.

Yoongi was going to start crying at this point.

“Um..?” Yoongi was a real wordsmith in the face of such a life-changing crisis, he was so proud of himself. He went for the tactic of point-blank ignoring everything weird about a pretty boy dancing in ballet clothing suddenly appearing in the back alley of his work place and talking about soulmates in a language he didn’t know but could somehow understand regardless.

“Are you real? I’m just stressed about the recital in a few weeks and you’re just a part of my imagination that’s manifested to tell me to chill the fuck out, right?” Yoongi’s voice takes on a slightly hysterical tone, and he continues down the steps to throw the rubbish in the bin. Ignorance is bliss. “Well, you can fuck right off back to where you came from, I’m doing okay.” Clearly that was not true.

The black-haired man drops his selfie pose, and moves to lean thoughtfully against the wall behind him. He seems calmer, in a sad way, and Yoongi feels like he’s kicked a puppy. The boy idly moves his feet in slow arches against the ground, like his body was still caught up in the dance while he thought. A shiver seems to run through his body. Yoongi suddenly remembered the chill in the air, fingers going numb as he closed the bin lid. He eyes the boy for a second, thinking.

“Hey, look – I know you’re just like part of my memory or something, but it’s cold out here, so–” He coughs, awkwardly gesturing to the door back into the shop. Yoongi’s the only one working right now, so there wouldn’t be any questions if he closed the shop for ten minutes and took a break. Any doubts he had are erased when the boy perks up and almost skips over and into the shop.

What was he doing with his life?

* * *

 

“So,” Yoongi begins, leaning back against the wall as the black-haired boy sits on the tattered two-seat couch across from him in the tiny staff room. He’s poised rather graciously, sitting with his legs crossed, back straight, hands crossed one over the other on top of his knees. He clears his throat and looks away from the bright eyes that bore into him. “I’m going to indulge in this since it seems like you’re not going to disappear any time soon. Who are you? How am I seeing you or feeling that you’re close by, or hearing your voice? How many other people are there?”

The boy doesn’t seem to know how to respond for a few seconds, sighing and looking around the room. “Well, I’m Jimin. I’m from St Petersburg, so being in Korea is, um, really weird. I don’t know anything, but maybe we’re dead, or one of us is psychic or something. I’ve only seen you and one other boy so far. I don’t- I don’t really know what’s going on.” He waves his hands frantically as he talks, looking as lost as Yoongi feels. He has the urge to hug the boy – Jimin, he repeats to himself – like he was a little kid that had skinned his knee and got upset. Jimin pauses suddenly, becomes still. “I don’t know how we saw each other the first two times, but I got here this time by thinking of you. I _tried_ to get here, so maybe that’s why this… visit is better than just a glimpse or a voice.”

Yoongi looks at him again before pushing off the wall to sit on the couch, keeping a bit of distance from Jimin. He can’t deny that there is a certain kind of pull that tries to drag him closer to the boy, a part of him that seems to buzz as the distance between them steadily decreases. Jimin stares at him, questioning something, but Yoongi can’t connect the dots from just a look. He decides to reciprocate with his own information.

“Okay, Jimin, I’m Yoongi. I don’t know anything either, but since it seems like you’re actually a real person with a real life in St Petersburg and not a part of my imagination or some shit, I guess we have to deal with each other.” He sighs, leaning backwards to rest his head against the back of the couch. Maybe if he didn’t look directly at Jimin, he could try to somehow pretend this was still fake. It seemed pointless when he could feel the heat emanate from Jimin’s proximity, hear his breathing. “I’ve only seen you and that roughed up boy from earlier. You were right, too, that this is Korea, though I’m not sure how you knew that. Can you read thoughts or something?”

Yoongi can feel Jimin shake his head somehow without looking at him. There’s definitely some kind of connection or power at play that he doesn’t – _they_ don’t know much about.

“I know Korean, so I recognised the writing on the litter earlier.” Jimin moves to turn towards him with a small giggle, so Yoongi stops trying to ignore him. There’s a _duh, you idiot!_ implicit in his smile. As he looks into Jimin’s eyes, it causes a weird nervous feeling in his stomach that he can’t quite control. More than just being free of that migraine for the first time since he woke up, Yoongi feels as though he has never been healthier in his entire life.

“Oh, so are you speaking Korean now? Is that why we understand each other?”

“No, I’m definitely speaking Russian. I guess this connection kind of transcends language differences somehow. It’s like some kind of auto translator in our heads.”

Yoongi makes a non-committal hum. There’s no way to investigate that issue, so it’s not worth thinking about. He has more pressing questions.

“About how this started… Well, I didn’t have any weird mystic power or migraine until I had this fucking crazy hallucination this morning. I was suddenly in another guy’s body, running down an alley way until–”

“You were stabbed three times and collapsed and died, right?” Jimin finishes Yoongi’s words softly, a slight shake in his voice as though he was trying to reign in some kind of emotion. He looks away for a second before looking back, eyes boring straight into Yoongi’s as he leans forward to clutch his shirt, relieved. “Thank God! I thought I was going crazy. I had the same dream this morning, I–”

Yoongi’s never had sensory overload quite like physical contact with Jimin. His tiny hands grasp his shirt front tightly – there’s barely skin-to-skin contact, but it feels like they are one and the same person. He can’t suddenly read Jimin’s thoughts or anything, but his mind screams at him that everything is perfect, and Yoongi’s not sure why. Or at least, he’s pretending that he doesn’t have an inkling why. Jimin’s first words to him replay in his mind – he might not have been that far off the truth, but then what soulmate stories ever include worldwide transportation, multiple people, and death dreams?

Jimin seems to sense that Yoongi’s having some kind of internalised breakdown and sits back, letting go of his shirt. His fingers dance on his knees, and it’s obvious from the faint flush of red on his cheeks that Jimin is embarrassed, too. He’s staring anywhere but in Yoongi’s direction. It’s kind of cute.

“Anyway, Yoongi-ssi,” Jimin glances in his direction as he speaks, quick darting looks, but never staying for long. “We should try to meet that other kid that was there last time, when we were singing. He’s either in a bad situation or a total bad ass.” Jimin’s fingers stop dancing on his thighs, and Yoongi can understand the deep sigh that follows. That other boy seemed a fair bit younger than the both of them, even though he seemed much tougher. He already felt an ache in his chest at the thought of someone else in this group of people being abused.

“Just hyung is fine,” Yoongi moves a hand to clutch Jimin’s shoulder, gently, just for a second. “We’ll find him and help if he needs it. I’m sure he’ll show up, or we can go to him.”

Jimin nods in response, but there’s a small smile playing on his lips. He looks up, solid eye contact for the first time in a few minutes. “How many other people do you think we’re connected to?”

“I don’t know. But I don’t think it’s just three. I keep getting flashes of other faces and places, though only you and that other boy have been visible for long. Three doesn’t feel right when I think it.”

“That’s because there’s eight of you.”

Yoongi jumps off the couch like he’s been zapped with lightning and Jimin follows suit. Lounging across the desk chair is a small girl with long red hair, and the brightest blue eyes Yoongi’s ever seen. Both colours are fake, and it’s unsettling against her pale sickish skin, but if she knows that, she doesn’t seem to care. He’s on edge, and side-steps a little in front of Jimin.

She looks up from her nails as a thought seems to strike her out of nowhere. “Well, there’s seven now. One of you died, remember?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pretty simple this time! Yoongi and Jimin are the only sensates in the bts cluster in this chapter, though as you can see we're due a look at Jungkook next. Who is this new chick?
> 
> hmu on twitter @agustdays, and as always, comments and kudos are much appreciated!

**Author's Note:**

> So, that's chapter one! I ended up only writing about half of what I had planned for this chapter, so much more to come.
> 
> Let me know what you're thinking! I plan to write and post a chapter a week, so plenty of room for editing, especially if anyone's keen on discussing. Projects are always more fun when collaborative.
> 
> hmu on twitter @agustdays
> 
> See ya next week!


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